


quid pro quo

by Sanna_Black_Slytherin



Series: my name is hamilton. alexander hamilton. [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: #TarantulaThomas, Acephobia, Alexander Is Decidedly Unhelpful, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Aromantic James Madison, Asexual James Madison, Asexual Thomas Jefferson, CIA Agent James Madison, Don’t Take Thomas To A Zoo, Fluff, Gen, How To Take Down James Madison: Kisses, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Hypersexualized society as viewed by asexuals, James Has A Casual Relationship With The Truth, James Just Wants To Go Home, Neither Of Them Know What They’re Doing, Texting, These Two Need Help, Thomas Jefferson: Worst Bond Villain Ever, Thomas Just Wants To Science Things, Thomas Obi-Wan Kenobis His Way Through Conversations, Villain Thomas Jefferson, What happens when you send an oblivious aroace agent on a seducing mission, amatonormativity, and general awkwardness, awkward kisses, to seduce an equally oblivious ace supervillain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanna_Black_Slytherin/pseuds/Sanna_Black_Slytherin
Summary: Prompt:It just occurred to me that asexuals would make great secret agents because the power of seduction doesn't work on us but we could still utilize the power of seduction against our enemies without getting carried away and just yes asexual secret agents.Okay but what if the enemy agent were also ace then you'd just get two aces trying to seduce each other and not getting anywhere





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thus, this was born.

James fought the urge to squirm.

He looked down at his hands, fiddling with a napkin, as he wondered why the hell he had accepted this mission. It had been obvious—almost painfully so—from the very beginning that James simply wasn’t made for this. He had known from the moment he had found out just what would be required of him that Jefferson’s advances would make him nauseous; he hadn’t been wrong. It was all… too much. He didn’t like it, and never had.

He honestly didn’t know why he had accepted this mission, except, oh right, he knew. Because he was literally the only available agent, and thought that he could do it. That he wouldn’t _mind_. He had ignored decades of reliable experience and run headfirst into a situation he was by no means prepared to deal with.

God, he was beginning to spend too much time with Hamilton—except Hamilton would have been able to complete this mission, would have _enjoyed_ it, even.

As a rule, James didn’t accept honeypot missions. He saw no point in them, he derived no pleasure from them, and there were many more qualified agents than he was for them. Indeed, literally anyone was more qualified than James, and considering the fact that these missions were the most sought-after, James has never had to make the decision whether to take the mission and risk failure and personal compromising, or to let the world go to shit.

Until this week.

James put his head in his hands, massaging his temples, as he forced himself to take a deep breath. He needed to remain calm. A full-out panic attack wouldn’t help, especially not with the person he had been sent to seduce only feet away, ordering coffee for the two of them.

Okay, so what could he do? Option one was to back out of the mission, potentially risking thousands of lives because he couldn’t make himself even _flirt_ with someone who, James knew, was objectively gorgeous. It shouldn’t be so hard—and yet it was.

If James backed out, thousands of people could die, and it would all be on _him_.

Option two was to call for backup and hope that someone got here in time, which meant—James checked his watch, even though he was perfectly aware of the time, because it bought him precious seconds where he didn’t have to _think_ and _make decisions_ —in less than four days. James’ inner pessimist told him that the chances of _that_ were quite bleak.

Or, option three: force himself to go along with Jefferson’s flirting.

He glanced up at the man at the counter, and saw Jefferson flash him a brilliant smile. His responding smile was somewhat strained, which James sincerely hoped that Jefferson interpreted as shy. Shy was a thing people went for, right?

Jefferson shot him another smile, before he turned back to the bartender. He didn’t seem like he was flirting with her, but apparently, James’ romance radar was shot to pieces—or, more accurately, he has never had one to begin with—so what did he know?

He sighed. He wished—well, he didn’t wish that he was born different, but he did wish that it didn’t lead to being blindsided to what felt like 90% of social cues.

Almost as if on cue, the bartender handed Jefferson their drinks, and the taller man returned to their table. He put down the drinks, passing one of them to James, and took a seat opposite James, then, almost as if on hindsight, ever-so-carefully put his hand over James’. James tensed up almost unwittingly—he wasn’t big on body contact either, but that was easier to hide than, well, the rest of his issues with honeypot missions—then forced himself to relax, hoping to hell and back that Jefferson hadn’t been paying attention.

Jefferson took in James. “You look tense,” he remarked. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

 _Yeah_ , thought James. _Don’t kill people._

“No,” he said out loud. “Sorry. I’m just having a… weird day,” he said evasively, biting down on his lip as he glanced at his coffee. He wondered whether he could spike it with alcohol. Would that make what he would have to do easier, or would his judgment be too clouded? He _was_ a lightweight, after all. It wouldn’t take much to drive him to the point where he would babble all of his secrets, and then he’d be in a far worse position than having to endure kissing and a few minutes of sex.

Jefferson made as if to withdraw his hand, then paused, his brows crinkling in thought. He stroked James’ knuckles with his thumb. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said sincerely.

James forced himself to look up and really _study_ Jefferson. For a villain who was about to murder four hundred innocent civilians, he was surprisingly gentle. From what he had gathered from the mission brief, James had been expecting a suave, laid-back, womanizing model of a supermodel who’d flirt with anything that moved—the exact wording had been ‘target’s cheekbones should qualify as sharp weapons’—but while the ‘suave’ and ‘laid-back’ were fairly spot-on so far, Jefferson had done very little in terms of seducing so far. Or maybe it was simply that James kept missing all of Jefferson’s cues.

In that moment, James resolved to never accept honeypot missions ever again.

At least Jefferson didn’t cackle. That would have been just too bizarre.

“So”—Jefferson’s voice shook James out of his reverie—“you never said what a guy like you is doing in Sydney. No offense to you, but—“ he gestured at James.

James let out a chuckle. “I don’t look like surfer material?” he guessed. This was familiar ground. He could do this.

Jefferson grimaced. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn’t want to be the one to say it,” he admitted.

“Well,” James said slowly, “I’m here on a business trip, actually”—it wasn’t technically a lie, although he was a businessman in the same way that the Royal Family of England was a real estate vocation—“but I have a little bit of time to kill while I’m waiting for my transaction partner to show up.”

“I see,” Jefferson said slowly. James wasn’t sure whether he believed James. “So you decided to talk to little old me?”

“Oh, trust me, meeting you has been entirely incidental”—at least in the way that James had never planned on going on a single honeypot mission—“but I’m glad that it happened.”

Jefferson’s grip on James’ hand tightened. “So am I.” Was it only James’ imagination, or did Jefferson’s voice sound just that little bit strained? Dear Lord, has James already blown his cover?

“Well, what’s a Southern gentleman like _you_ doing so far from home?” James shot back in what he hoped was a playful tone, trying to stave off the feeling of dread that pooled in his stomach.

Jefferson waved a hand to dismiss James’ flattering words. “I moved here a few years ago. I hadn’t intended to stay here for as long as I have, but”—he shrugged—“here I am.”

James had known this, of course, from the mission briefing that the agency had provided, but it was good to know that Jefferson wasn’t lying to him quite yet. He was making an effort to be honest with James—either that, or he was trying to lure James into a false sense of security.

“Do you miss home?” James asked in an effort to keep the conversation going.

A small smile curled up on Jefferson’s lips. “Every day,” he confessed. “Even after all those years, Virginia is still my one true home.”

That, at least, was one sentiment James could agree with wholeheartedly.

“I’m often away on business trips,” he revealed, the words surprising even himself, “but there is no better feeling than coming home.”

Jefferson’s head bobbed almost lethargically. “True,” he concurred.

James stared straight ahead at Jefferson, then, when he noticed that the man was looking back at him, glanced down at the mug of coffee again. His stare was vacant, and he wondered whether Jefferson noticed. _Probably_ , James thought miserably. He really wasn’t made for these kinds of missions. Rather than making his stomach flutter, even the notion of romantic entanglements left him feeling vaguely nauseous. Most people didn’t mind sleeping with a stranger—James _did_. It didn’t feel okay; it felt _wrong_ , in the most fundamental sense. It felt like he was being pressured—whether by society and its expectations, or specific individuals—into something he had never needed nor cared for.

James had never wanted to have found himself in the unenviable position to _have_ to contemplate sex—and everything that went with it—as a real possibility. He had never wanted to find himself on the receiving end of the ‘You _like_ like someone?’ conversation, because that always inevitably ended in the speaker trying to pressure the person they were addressing into confessing their feelings or ‘being themselves’, as if that would help with all of life’s problems, as if they weren’t being invasive and intrusive in the worst of ways, as if they couldn’t see that the person they were talking to had just bared themselves before them and didn’t _want_ their feelings to be taunted. People acted like romance was the be-all and end-all in life, when that simply wasn’t _true_.

Well, _fuck_. He couldn’t do this.

James blinked away sudden tears as he stared down at his and Jefferson’s intertwined fingers. He couldn’t do this, he repeated to himself, and it was irresponsible to try to fool himself into thinking that he could. “I should go,” he said as he stood up.

“Please don’t,” the villain’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

James swallowed. He forced himself to meet Jefferson’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Thomas,” he said softly, purposefully using Jefferson’s first name in hopes of appealing to the man’s more benign nature. “I just… I remembered that I had someplace to be,” he lied smoothly as he picked up his suitcase—not empty, no, but filled with meaningless paperwork. In case anyone chanced a glance inside it, they would see nothing out of the ordinary, just as it was meant to be.

Jefferson’s eyebrows creased. “Oh. I see.” The expression on his face was inscrutable. He stood up to match James’ posture, still clasping the shorter man’s fingers in his.

“I’m truly sorry,” James offered. He hesitated, before asking, “Can I make it up to you somehow? Let me make it up to you. I don’t want to end our meeting on such a sombre note.” James was on the verge of panicked chattering, because he was so not equipped for this. He didn’t understand the seemingly obvious signals that everyone else did.

Jefferson didn’t reply for a moment. He studied his mug, his fingers drumming against the porcelain. James’ heart rate picked up. _Shit_ , had he made a misstep already? Had he misunderstood how the whole thing worked? This _was_ how people did it, right?

“Or,” James said slowly, “I could just… leave,” he trailed off awkwardly.

Jefferson’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting James’ uncertain stare. “Oh, no,” he apologized. “I was simply lost in thought for a moment there.” His face split into a smirk. “By all means, make it up to me.”

“Oh.” James didn’t know what to reply to that. Not for the first time, he was cursing the rest of the agents—he could have taken one of their missions, and then they’d be the ones stuck flirting with a megalomaniac—a reasonably sane megalomaniac, true, but a megalomaniac still—but _no_ , that was simply too much to ask, was it?

James swallowed. “When are you free?” He forced the words out of his mouth, hoping that they didn’t sound as artificial as they felt.

Jefferson waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, just about whenever,” he said flippantly. “I’m a freelancer.”

“Really?” Now this, James _had_ to hear. “What do you do for a living?”

He watched as Jefferson hesitated for the briefest of moments. “I’m an artist,” the taller man said at length.

“Really?” James replied with feigned interest. “What kind of an artist?”

“I’m a sculptor,” Jefferson said frivolously, and if James didn’t know any better, he would have believed him.

As it was, James did happen to know better. “ _Fascinating_. Do you use standard tools or custom ones?” He figured that it was as good a subject as any to keep the conversation going.

One of Jefferson’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “You continue to surprise me, dear sir,” he teased. “I hadn’t expected you to be acquainted with the trade of sculpture.”

“I make it my duty to know a little about everything,” James said with a light shrug, even as he carefully disentangled his fingers from Jefferson’s. “Now, standard or custom?”

A small smirk curved Jefferson’s mouth. “Custom, if you must know. I know how I prefer to work, and standard tools simply don’t cut it these days.”

They stared at each other for a moment. Neither spoke.

“I see,” James said slowly. He bit his lower lip again. “Thank you for telling me. Now, I hate to sound abrupt, but I really do have to dash.” He made a helpless shrug, as if trying to convey ‘What can you do?’.

“Here.” Jefferson dug around in his pockets, finally coming up with a pen. Without any warning, he grabbed James’ hand and scribbled down his number. James tensed up at the contact. He breathed a sigh of relief when Jefferson finally let go of his palm. He glanced down at the numbers on his skin, the still wet ink glinting in the Australian sun. “Call me, okay? I’d simply _love_ to see you again.”

And _there_ it was—the smirk. James recognized it from watching Hamilton shoot it at everyone—including James, which left a little pool of disquiet in James’ guts. He reconsidered his repudiation of the ‘flirts with everything that moves’ clause in Jefferson’s evaluation.

James swallowed. “Yeah. I’d—I’m going to call you. Later. See you.” He shot Jefferson another strained smile, then fled the scene with as much dignity as he could still salvage.

Σ Σ Σ

James clenched his hands as the call was disconnected. He took a calming breath, mentally berating himself for just how much his control over his body had slipped in just this past day.

Schuyler’s words echoed in his mind. “There isn’t at the moment anyone who is able to replace you, Sigma,” she had told him, not unkindly. “I’ve forwarded your objections to the director,” she had continued. “The director isn’t going to force you to go through with this mission against your will. Should you feel that it is beyond your capacity to complete it, you are to return home.”

“However?” James prompted when Schuyler paused.

Schuyler let out a quiet breath. “However,” she continued, and James could almost _hear_ her mouth drawing up into a thin line, “that would be at the cost of approximately four hundred lives, all civilians.”

James cursed. Schuyler didn’t bother reprimanding him for the atypical behaviour.

James dragged a hand through his short hair. Dear Lord. What was he going to _do_?

On one hand, he couldn’t do it. That was almost painfully clear. He froze up at any physical contact Jefferson initiated, he was revolted by the idea of kissing the man, and he didn’t even want to contemplate what Jefferson would want to do after kissing James.

On the other hand…

Four hundred innocent lives.

There was no choice to be made, not really.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James tries to flirt, Thomas doesn't like Romance, and they both think that kissing means pressing lips against one another in stillness for 15 seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a wonderful human being.

The beeping of a phone startled Thomas. He glanced up from the sketch he was making, detailing the mechanics of an apparatus that would coat people in ice—not that he was interested in any such project, as it would be highly impractical and would serve no scientific purpose whatsoever, but it was a good exercise for his brain. And, well, in case he ever felt the urge to freeze someone. Like, hypothetically, government spies.

Like James Madison.

Thomas was perfectly aware of who his new friend was, and that was nothing more nor less than a government spy, a puppet in the hands of men who thought they knew so much better than everyone else, who thought that the right hands were theirs and that they were allowed to do whatever they wanted, at the cost of their own citizens’ lives.

Well, Thomas decided that if world leaders were encroaching on people’s privacy and risking the lives of the citizens they were supposed to be responsible for, the ones they were supposed to protect from all harm, then what was stopping Thomas from doing the same? They certainly had no moral high ground to berate him from. At least  _ he _ wasn’t lying about it, wasn’t hiding behind a façade of a good man. He knew that he wasn’t good, at least not by the widely accepted definition of the word. He wasn’t  _ bad _ , per se, but he wasn’t good, either.

Then again, unlike the people supposedly in charge of enforcing the law, he has never claimed to be.

Thomas estimated that the chances of Madison actually connecting Thomas to his alter ego were fairly low—not dismissively low, no, but still low, since there was very little evidence to tie Thomas to the person terrorizing the Australian Eastern Coast for the past several months. In all probability, Madison had been sent by his agency—by the accent, Thomas was guessing CIA, although MI6, who  _ had _ to be competing for the title of the most meddling government agency, because there was  _ no way _ they were poking their noses in everyone’s business by accident, were known for training their agents specifically in accents—on a reconnaissance mission, to investigate as well as to try to narrow down the source of the fluctuations that were an unfortunate side-effect of the Swordamatron 1800—and yes, that was its actual name, not that Thomas would admit it out loud.

Thomas put down his pencil with a sigh. He unlocked his phone, clicking on the new text message. It was from a number Thomas didn’t recognize.

 

**From: [unknown number]**

Hi! This is James from the café. I’m just wondering if you’d like to go out for coffee?

 

Thomas frowned in chagrin. That sounded suspiciously like a date invitation.

As a rule, he didn’t  _ do _ dates. He didn’t like talking to people, and it was only partially due to the fact that he had severe social anxiety—the majority of the human population was daft and ignorant, their opinions could be swayed with the snap of a finger, and they followed their leaders blindly, never questioning orders they received. Thomas didn’t appreciate blind obedience in conversation partners—he liked an intellectual equal, and it had been a long time since he’d met one of those. Plebeians, the lot of them.

Even moving past the problem of the socialization on the most basic of levels, Thomas did not like what came next. He didn’t derive enjoyment from kissing, nor was he looking forward to it. Sure, he knew how to flirt with people, but he never relished in it—it was merely a means to an end. In Thomas’ mind, people wasted far too much time on those matters, time that could be better spent on literally anything else—studies, books, travelling, discoveries, the advancement of the human species as a whole,  _ anything _ . Sexual intercourse—or, as people liked to call it, ‘lovemaking’, though very little  _ love _ was made in that act—wasn’t even a option.

In short, Thomas didn’t find any aspect of dating enjoyable, and he didn’t see how this one would be any different. Granted, the person inviting him was quite interesting, given his occupation, but he was, in all probability, as simple-minded as the rest of them, only one thing on his mind, and Thomas didn’t want to set himself up for disappointment.

His fingers hovered over the phone. He was on the verge of replying that no, actually, he was busy and had to take a raincheck, when his eyes settled on the draft he had been pouring over. A thought occurred to him, and, no matter how much he tried to squash it, it refused to vanish.

Thomas glanced down at the drawings. They could always be finished later, and besides, they weren’t particularly important, either. Their main point had been to flex his brain a little, but that could just as well be accomplished by talking circles around an international spy. Hopefully, he would be able to get a little information out of the man without him being any the wiser.

Worst come to worst, Thomas could always leave. Nothing was stopping him.

Besides, it would be good for him to get out a little, breathe a little fresh air, and move a little. He had been cooped up in the same room—in the same position, even—for well over four hours.

Decision made, Thomas grabbed his phone.

 

**To: [unknown number]**

Sounds great ;) Where do you want to meet?

Σ Σ Σ

There was only one word that could be used to describe the date, and that was ‘awkward’.

The place James had invited Jefferson to was quaint and picturesque. It was located on the outskirts of Sydney’s old town, providing a stunning view of the nearby sea. The food was nice—James had been relying on the receptionist’s advice, and it hadn’t steered him wrong yet—and the service was impeccable, quick and unfailingly polite, and yet, James simply couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was about to go horribly wrong. That wasn’t how normal people were supposed to feel on dates, was it? He felt as though the world was going to go to hell any minute, and it would all be James’ fault.

He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was trying to stifle a panic attack, but he also knew that, unless he just up and left, he couldn’t do much about it. He tampered down on the anxiety pooling in his stomach. James was waiting for the bottomless void to swallow him any moment now, please and thank you.

Jefferson cut himself off mid-sentence. He peered at James inquisitively. “Are you okay?” he asked.

James waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah. I’m fine. I think I ate something bad,” he lied.

The expression on Jefferson’s face turned concerned. “That’s not the definition of ‘fine’,” he told James resolutely. “I should take you to the doctor, to get you checked out. Do you have any allergies?” he rambled off.

James shook his head, fighting an almost involuntary smile at Jefferson’s antics. He didn’t know whether the concern was real on Jefferson’s part, or if it was all part of his façade, but he would lie if he said that it wasn’t endearing. “I’ll be fine,” he assured the taller man.

Jefferson frowned. “That’s not exactly  _ reassu _ —”

“Let’s just eat, shall we?” James suggested. He couldn’t believe that Jefferson actually fell for his lie, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Σ Σ Σ

Contrary to the impression Madison seemed to be under, Thomas didn’t believe a word of what came out of Madison’s mouth. They sounded odd, almost  _ forced _ .

His frown deepened. Madison wasn’t allergic, at least not to anything he had eaten—Thomas refused to believe that an international spy would be so careless as to consume something that would be harmful to them, rendering them functioning at less than peak efficiency—so it couldn’t have been that. What was it, then, that had Madison so up in nerves? Had he figured out Thomas’ identity? No, Thomas reasoned, or else he would have reacted somewhat more violently. Thomas harboured no illusions what Madison’s orders were, were he to find the person responsible for the recent events, and talking it out over a coffee certainly wasn’t it.

It was something else, then—and whatever was unnerving enough to unsettle an international spy had to be something special.

Thomas took another close look at Madison. The man looked… the closest thing Thomas could think of was uncomfortable. He was alternating between drumming his fingers against the tabletop and clenching them into a fist to stop any subconscious movement. He was a

In short, he looked ready to bolt, yet at the same time also gave the impression that Thomas wouldn’t be able to get him out of his chair if he so tried to lift him, which Thomas had no doubt that he would be able to manage (and really, whose idea had it been to recruit, what, a 5’4’’ ball of skin and bones? That hardly seemed like an apt choice for someone whose primary job would be hand-to-hand combat). Thomas couldn’t figure Madison out. What was it about—

_ Ah.  _ Of course.

The corners of Thomas’ mouth twitched.

Madison had someone back home.

Thomas had seen it in other people—not first hand, no, but people-watching was something of a guilty pleasure of his, and he took perverse pride in being able to spot a cheater from quite a distance—and here were all its symptoms: sweaty hands, fidgeting; smiles that, while genuine, also seemed somewhat strained; the way Madison seemed content to meet his eyes one second, only to then avoid them like it was the plague.

Thomas could have hit himself; why had he assumed that Madison was single? That was a stupid assumption to make. Over fifty-five percent of adult Americans were in a relationship; statistically, it  _ had _ been more likely that Thomas’ new friend had a Mr or Mrs Madison waiting for him at home—although Thomas was admittedly curious as to what Madison told his spouse about his occupation. The kitchen scene from  _ Mr And Mrs Smith _ played in his mind, and Thomas stifled a grin. Yes, he could definitely see Madison as the type to to inadvertently marry another super spy.

So here was Madison, married super spy, overseas and cheating on his spouse with whom he assumed was an innocent civilian. He was certainly feeling guilt about the whole matter—that was the signals that Thomas was picking up—but not enough to stop. Not enough to stay faithful to his partner (probably a husband, as straight men rarely had a tendency to go for male flings).

Thomas’ nose wrinkled in distaste. He might not be a good guy, but at least he wasn’t a  _ cheater _ .

A thought occurred to him. He wondered how far Madison was willing to go. Flirting was all fine and dandy, but what would he do if Thomas decided to push just a little further? He stomped on his instinctive revulsion at the thought. The ends justified the means, after all, and Thomas’ contempt for romance wouldn’t stand in the way of him teaching Mr Spy a well-warranted lesson. Nobody deserved to have their feelings played with, especially not the way Madison was playing with his husband’s feelings.

Thomas reached for Madison’s hand, covering it in his. He saw Madison tense up, just barely, and fought a satisfied smirk. Served him right. As Thomas began telling Madison about the history of the region—which he admitted was something of a personal interest of his, along with pretty much everything else—his fingers stroked Madison’s knuckles. He watched Madison shudder a little under his touch, but other than that, he made no move to withdraw his hand from under Thomas’.

Thomas leaned forward with morbid curiosity. Ignoring the revolting feelings coming from his guts, he carefully wrapped an arm around Madison’s neck, noting the man’s stifled posture, and slowly leaned forward still to capture Madison’s lips in his. He closed his eyes, unable to look at Madison. He focused on the movement of his lips, trying not to mess up terribly. He hadn’t done this before—hadn’t ever been interested in any of it. He still wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there.

Madison made a strange sound in the deep of his throat. Thomas couldn’t interpret it. Was it a thing people did? Christ, he was so ill-equipped to deal with this.

Thomas’ face was scrunched up as he pressed his lips impassively against Madison’s. He didn’t know what he was supposed to be doing with his arms. He settled for laying his hands on the table and counting down the seconds until this whole ordeal could be  _ over _ . Thomas didn’t know how long a kiss usually lasted, but by his estimation, fifteen seconds was plenty of time. A little bit of discomfort was one thing, but self-torture was uncalled for.

“I hope I haven’t misread the signs?” Thomas asked when they separated, finally opening his eyes.

Madison’s swallow was almost audible. “No,” the man murmured. “No, you haven’t.” He didn’t sound happy about it. In fact, he sounded downright  _ miserable _ . Thomas couldn’t wrap his mind around it—Madison obviously felt guilty about what he was doing with Thomas, but, although he could have stopped Thomas anytime, he didn’t.

Thomas gritted his teeth. He didn’t like the feeling of  _ knowing _ that he was missing something, but not being able to figure out what exactly it was.

Σ Σ Σ

James squirmed. He couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t touch Jefferson anymore. Apprehension was coiling itself around his stomach as he disentangled himself from Thomas’ touch.

He glanced around, noting with not a little trepidation that they seemed to have gathered attention from the people around them. Why were they staring? What did they know that James didn’t? He wasn’t that transparent, was he? He prayed that Jefferson didn’t see right through him. Was it too obvious that he hadn’t done this before? Jefferson obviously has, if his actions were anything to go by—he seemed to know what he was doing when he kissed James.

_ He had kissed James _ .

God, James hadn’t known what the  _ fuck _ he was doing, or even what he was  _ supposed  _ to be doing; he simply sat with his hands in his lap, eyes wide and paralyzed with abject  _ horror _ until finally— _ finally _ —Jefferson had withdrawn.

The endless darkness and mystery of the ocean was becoming more tempting by the second, James thought miserably.

Σ Σ Σ

**_Mission report_ ** _ : _

_ Date of deployment: _ 2017/12/04

_ Agent _ : James Madison (Sigma)

_ Handler: _ Angelica Schuyler

_ Aim _ : Neutralize threat (Thomas Randolph Jefferson) by any means necessary.

_ Update 2017/12/07 _ : Threat located and engaged. Currently  undergoing torture gaining trust.

_ Comments 2017/12/07 _ : How long are kisses supposed to last??? Angelica help???

Σ Σ Σ

_ Message from handler 2017/12/08: _ You poor thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels like my back is trying to have me assassinated I request assistance


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James takes Thomas to the zoo, Thomas kidnaps a panda, and James is once again reminded of why he doesn't do honeypot missions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aka, James Did Not Sign Up For This And Thomas Jefferson You Will Put That Panda Down Or So Help Me God

**From: madison. james madison.  
**

Hey Thomas ;)

Are you doing anything?

 

**To: madison. james madison.  
**

Not particularly, no

Why?

 

**From: madison. james madison.  
**

I was thinking we could meet up at the zoo?

Σ Σ Σ

James glanced down at his phone. Jefferson wasn’t replying. What if he decided that James wasn’t worth his time? James was following Angelica’s advice with texting, _surely_ Jefferson hadn’t figured out how inapt he was at this _now_. James was supposed to seduce Jefferson, not kill him, but if worst came to worst, he was allowed to use any means necessary to ‘neutralize’ Jefferson, as the mission brief said.

He tried to focus on the update he was supposed to be writing, but his attention kept returning to the silent phone. It was infuriating in its stillness—like the harbinger of misfortune, about to destroy everything James held dear.

James shook his head. He was imagining things. Phones were inanimate objects.

It was another ten minutes before his phone buzzed. With lightning speed that he hadn’t known that he possessed, James turned around and grabbed his phone. He beseeched whatever entity was listening that he hadn’t completely messed up yet. He couldn’t be completely useless. He’d be Hamilton’s laughingstock for the better part of a decade.

A small smile blossomed up on his face as he read Jefferson’s reply.

 

**From: Target**

When?

 

James’ fingers practically flew across the keyboard in his haste to reply.

Σ Σ Σ

James furrowed his brows as he watched Jefferson— _Thomas, call me Thomas,_ Jefferson had told James repeatedly with a brilliant smile—touch another tarantula. How did he even find those things?

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you have an obsession,” he said casually.

Jefferson turned his head slightly to James. “And what if I do?” he retorted.

James blinked at the sudden defensiveness. He scrambled for something to say. He settled on, “Then that’s… okay.” He hated how odd he sounded. The awkwardness had to be positively tangible by this point. If he had one of his knives with him—which, to be fair, he did, but nobody needed to know that—he could probably cut the tension in the room with it.

Jefferson glanced at him searchingly for a moment, before nodding decisively and turning his attention back to the arachnid on his palm. Unseen, James’ nose twitched in disgust. How could Jefferson willingly _hold_ that thing? James knew that Jefferson wasn’t exactly normal—no normal person wanted to forge a sword from the blood of four hundred people—but this was a whole new level of bizarre.

“I can almost hear your thoughts,” Jefferson said unexpectedly, his back still turned to James. At least that was one advantage of the situation—James had ascertained that Jefferson still didn’t suspect who James was; he doubted that he would have turned his back on James if he did. Jefferson didn’t seem suicidal, after all.

“Why do you like tarantulas?” James asked, mostly out of an unspoken obligation to fill the silence than because he was curious as to Jefferson’s eccentricities. The man had plenty of quirks, but it wasn’t James’ job to discover those. James’ job was to prevent Jefferson from killing people.

Jefferson shrugged, careful not to upset the spider. “Why do other people like cats and dogs?”

“Because they’re fuzzy and practical,” James replied immediately, then winced as he realized that Jefferson’s question had been rhetorical. Oh well. Out of all of James’ screw-ups, this was hardly the worst one yet.

They were both silent for a moment, walking beside each other, James’ hand hanging limply in Jefferson’s. James fought the urge to rip out his hand from Jefferson’s grip. That would make it almost painfully obvious that something was wrong, and James was aiming for the exact opposite. James was avoiding Jefferson’s eyes while trying to make it look like he wasn’t. He was watching the animals, trying not to think about the spider making itself at home in Jefferson’s other palm.

“How did you even _find_ it?” James eventually broke the silence.

“Her,” Jefferson corrected James, and was this guy even for _real_ , “and she just came to me.”

James huffed. He didn’t deign it with a reply.

Jefferson came to a sharp stop, and James followed suit. The taller man turned to face James. He seemed to pause for a moment, almost as if waiting for something, but nothing seemed to be happening.

James tilted his head in confusion. What was Jefferson doing?

Suddenly, Jefferson’s lips twisted into a smile—why did it feel so hollow?—and he leaned in to kiss James.

James tensed up. He found that, no matter how much he tried to force himself to relax, his body would simply not comply. He stood frozen to the spot as Jefferson’s lips met his. They were dry. James stood listlessly, willing himself to wait out the kiss, as Jefferson continued to motionlessly put pressure on James’ lips, his grip on James’ hand tightening. No, a small voice at the back of James’ brain thought, this definitely wasn’t James’ thing.

After what felt like an hour, but could not have been longer than twenty-something seconds—twenty-one exactly, not that James was keeping track—Jefferson pulled back. Something flashed across his face, but it was gone faster than James could interpret it.

“I hope that was okay,” Jefferson said, looking down at James with big eyes and a tarantula on his shoulder, and when did it even get there?

James forced himself to smile. “Of course.” _Hell, no._ “You can kiss me anytime you want.” _If you never touch me again, it will still be too soon._

Jefferson looked confused for a moment, before a smirk appeared on his face. “I’ll be sure to do that,” he drawled, his Southern accent more pronounced for some reason.

James’ smile froze on his lips as he processed the words. A wave of panic swept through him.

 _Shit_ , he thought faintly. He had just given Thomas Jefferson _permission to kiss him_ — _whenever he wanted_.

What has he _done_?

Σ Σ Σ

Well.

Thomas hadn’t been expecting that. He answered on automatic, before processing Madison’s words.

Was he supposed to give permission in return? After all, Madison was the expert on this, not Thomas. Thomas barely knew what the hell he was doing. He should probably give Madison permission, if only not to seem out of place—even though the voice in the back of his head was practically screaming at him not to do it. He very much did not want to give Madison permission to kiss him. Kissing was a waste of time, and it served no discernible purpose whatsoever. Why did people even kiss? People were _weird_.

_Relax, Thomas._

“Yeah. And you do. That is, you can kiss me whenever,” Thomas all but stuttered, all the while meaning _Do not come near me, or I will_ disembowel _you_. Comfort wasn’t his thing, nor was social interaction if he thought about it. This _right here_ was why he preferred robots and microscopes and tarantulas to humans.

Madison shifted. “That’s good to know. And. Yeah. I’ll do that too.” He was avoiding Thomas’ eyes while trying not to be overtly obvious about it—and failing. For a super spy, Thomas thought, he was _dreadful_ at disguises.

“So”—Madison extricated his hand from Thomas’ hold—“do you want to go see the pandas?”

“Yes, please,” Thomas all but breathed in relief, glad that Madison was giving him an out. He didn’t know what to do—knew that he was making things awkward—but hadn’t known how to fix it.

Madison stuffed his hands into his pockets. Thomas wondered absentmindedly whether he had a gun on him. He sincerely hoped so; not that Thomas intended to find out first-hand, but it would have been awesome.

He shot sideways glances at Madison all through the walk, until they came to the pandas, and that was how Thomas discovered that tarantulas weren’t the only pet he was strangely fond of.

Pandas were gorgeous. They were fluffy, and fuzzy, and wonderful and inexplicably interesting. Their very existence was baffling, a mystery Thomas looked forward to solving.

He wondered whether he could get away with stealing one.

Σ Σ Σ

James made sure to plan a date for each day. Even as he was uncomfortable with them, it was better for him to suffer than to risk innocent civilian lives. That was his job, after all, wasn’t it?

Despite Angelica’s advice that ‘it got better with time’, the following dates didn’t get any less unnerving for James. He was still unsure of every word, every gesture, and Jefferson’s unpredictable behaviour—the man was cheerfully chattering James’ ear off one moment, only to withdraw into himself the next like James was planning to murder him there and then the next—wasn’t exactly reassuring.

The day of Jefferson’s plan, James invited Jefferson to the opera. He had expected for Jefferson to decline—had back-up plans already in place, waiting only for his word to be set off—but, to his surprise, Jefferson _accepted_. James smiled, and pretended that the feeling of Jefferson’s fingers intertwined in his didn’t make his skin crawl.

He didn’t know what Jefferson was planning, and how James was involved with it, but whatever it was, James didn’t like it. If he didn’t already know Jefferson’s plan, he would have assumed that he was one of the people whose blood Jefferson planned to use to create that damned sword of his. As it was, James had woefully little information regarding what Jefferson wanted with James, if not to use him as a guinea pig in his experiments. He tried to mask his unease during their date; by the looks Thomas threw him every now and again, he knew that he hadn’t succeeded quite as well as he had wished.

Surprisingly, he day somehow went by without any casualties courtesy of Jefferson.  If anything, that only served to increase James’ distress.

Just what the hell was Thomas planning?

Σ Σ Σ

Jefferson wasn’t acting any different the next day. James didn't know what he had expected, but this certainly wasn't _it_. He refused to believe that all it had taken to stop Jefferson's plan had been a few dates. Romance sunk another few levels in his mind. If the general public was _this_ susceptible to the power of seduction, how did they ever get anything _done_? It was frankly beyond James' understand.

Still, James' work was far from done. Just because Jefferson didn't get around to carrying out his plan that day, didn't mean that he wouldn't do it the next day. As much as he didn't want to, James needed to keep up the charade—for how long, he did not know, and didn't _that_ scare him. He didn't know what the long-term solution would be; after all, he couldn't pretend to date Jefferson indefinitely. The man wasn't stupid—sooner or later, Jefferson would realize that it was all a trick, and James did not want to stick around to see the fall-out from that. He could, just from observing Hamilton, guess how messy the end of romantic entanglements tended to be. (Eliza's stone cold face, staring down at Alexander with a distaste James hadn’t imagined _existed_ , flashed in James' mind for a second.) Even barring that, James was a resource, and no matter how serious the threat, he could not be used to battle one villain indefinitely.

At the same time, he felt that Jefferson didn't deserve to die, which was undoubtedly Washington's long-term solution for this problem. Underneath all that bravado of his, Thomas Jefferson was not fundamentally evil—simply a little misguided.

James pressed his head into his hands, staving off the inevitable headache that this was sure to bring him. If only there was some way to convert Jefferson to their side without alerting the man in question as to James’ intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully, all of you have had at least a small Christmas break! For me, the break isn't quite over yet, so I'm alternating chem, math, and, well, writing.
> 
> Again, Merry belated Christmas! If you enjoyed this chapter, feel free to leave a short review!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas has a fascination with guns, James fails at dating, and Thomas' social anxiety rears its ugly head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s! A fanwork! For this fic! Check it out!

“What are you doing tomorrow?” James asked, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers.

Thomas hesitated. “I had something planned”—he took in James’ panicked expression, appearing too fast for the shorter man to hide—”but I can take a raincheck,” Thomas rushed to assure him. “It’s hardly _urgent_.”

Thomas watched as James relaxed visibly at his words. He frowned. What exactly did James think he _knew_? The only thing that was of comfort to Thomas was the knowledge that, if James had guessed his true identity, they would not be having so civil a conversation. In all likelihood, Thomas would have found himself staring at the barrel of a gun which he knew for a fact that James carried with him at all times.

For an international super spy, Thomas mused, the man had all the subtlety of Ronald Weasley. _For the love of God_ , the man even used the same type of gun as Bond—a Walther PPK, unless Thomas was sorely mistaken, which he rarely ever was in respect to firearms. What was it Q had told Bond? _‘Walther PPK. 7.65 mm, with a delivery like a brick through a plate glass window. Takes a Brausch silencer with very little reduction in muzzle velocity. The American CIA swear by them.’_ If there was any truth to that statement, it was yet more evidence, if it could be called as such, to support Thomas’ theory that James was CIA, which at this point Thomas could safely say that he was.

Thomas watched as James swallowed. “Good. That’s—that’s good.”

Suppressing his instinctive aversion to physical—no, not physical, he corrected himself, _romantic_ —contact, Thomas reached for James’ hand. “Are you okay?”

James nodded sharply. His smile didn’t quite reach the corners of his lips. Thomas wondered if he had received some alarming news. Maybe his husband had finally found out that James Madison was a cheating bastard and wanted a divorce.

Eh. Probably not. Wishful thinking.

“Yeah,” James brushed off Thomas’ concern, which did exactly nothing to assuage Thomas’ worried mind.

Σ Σ Σ

“Hey,” James piped up suddenly, “guess where I’m taking you.”

Thomas frowned. “I don’t know.”

James rolled his eyes. “That’s the _point of guessing_ ,” he said slowly, even as he internally freaked out. What if Thomas refused to guess? What would James do in that case? Angelica’s advice of _“Don’t ask him where he wants to eat. Tell him to guess where you’re taking him, then take him to the first guess.”_ echoed in James’ mind. Shit. He didn’t know what to do if Thomas—

The man in question heaved a dramatic sigh. “Very well. Tetsuya's? Ester’s? Hubert’s? Momofuku Seiobo?”

James smiled in relief. Tetsuya's, he could work with. He wasn’t exactly what people would call underfunded, having a not-inconsiderable amount of money in his bank account, and a substantial funding from CIA to go with it. “You’re right on one account,” he said.

“Well?” Thomas prompted. “Which one? And don’t do this whole ‘enigmatic’ charade, James Madison. It really doesn’t suit you. Just _tell me_.”

“The first.”

A bright grin threatened to split Thomas’ face in two. “ _Really_?”

James rolled his eyes. “No,” he drawled sarcastically. “I am in the habit of lying to my boyfriends”—even now, the mere word caused an unpleasant feeling to coil itself around his stomach—“regarding the destination of our date. _Yes_ , it’s Tetsuya’s.”

Thomas raised his hands defensively. “Hey, I’m just asking,” he said smugly, amusement practically oozing from him. The Southern accent was more pronounced than usual, a sign that Thomas was letting his guard down around James more. By all logic, that in itself should have been cause for alarm, if not outright vigilance, because Thomas really couldn’t afford to accidentally reveal his identity to James, but he couldn’t find it in himself to even be _surprised_. If anything, he was surprised by the fact that he _wasn’t_ surprised. He should probably have seen this coming, with how much time he spent around James.

Unfortunately, all of this led Thomas to a conclusion he didn’t like: he seemed to be developing _feelings_ for James.

Against all common sense, Thomas Jefferson genuinely wanted to be James Madison’s _friend_.

What the actual _fuck_ , Jefferson.

Σ Σ Σ

James realized that something was _off_ when he felt Thomas suddenly tense up under James’ fingers.

He was in the middle of explaining the history of the Culper Spy Ring and its significance in the liberation of America, because _really_ , for an American, Thomas’ historical knowledge was woefully lacking in several areas, when he felt Thomas’ hand suddenly still in his grip. He stopped mid-word. He glanced up at Thomas, intending to ask him what was wrong, but the question died on his lips as he took in Thomas’ pallid state. He was frozen, his eyes eerily empty—as though he was looking at James without really seeing him, without really seeing _anything_.

James bit his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t know what had set it off, but right now, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t have helped him fix it either way. He perceived what was going on, could recognize the symptoms. He had seen it happen far too many times in his life, and it was through no fault of that person’s, and if there was anything that he had learned, it was that nobody deserved to suffer through a panic attack alone.

He exhaled softly as he reached out with his other hand, turning over Thomas’ hand and tracing patterns in his palm. Nobody deserves to feel alone.

“Hey, look at me,” he spoke softly as he set to work massaging Thomas’ hand. He could practically feel the tension under his fingertips, the energy coiling around, set to burst at the barest misstep.

Thomas didn’t reply. If he was honest, James hadn’t actually expected him to.

“Look at me,” James demanded again, somewhat louder, more _exacting_ , but still carrying tranquility in his voice. “Focus on my voice. Yes, just like that,” he encouraged when he felt Thomas’ fingers coil faintly around James’ left hand. “Listen to me. Anchor yourself to me. Breathe in, Thomas. One, two, three. Good. Now breathe out. Slowly. Four, five, six. That’s very good, Thomas.  Don’t think about anything; just continue to listen to my voice. Breathe in again.”

James persisted in his encouragement as he continued to massage Thomas’ hand. His thumb pressed into the middle of Thomas’ palm, and he heard a hiss coming from Thomas’ lips. “Sorry,” he muttered, just quietly enough for the words to reach Thomas’ eyes, but not loud enough to be overheard by anyone else. “I’m terribly sorry. Just—focus on my voice. Relax.” Ever so gradually, he felt Thomas relax under his touch. His fingers straightened out, then curled up around James’ wrist again.

“Thank you,” Thomas finally whispered. He glanced down at James, meeting his eyes. “You didn’t need to do that.”

James shook his head. Maybe he didn’t need to do it, per se, but, well—

“Nobody deserves to suffer through a panic attack alone,” he repeated, as much for his own benefit as for Thomas’.

It wouldn’t have been _right_ to let Thomas suffer, he reminded himself. Even Thomas. _Especially_ Thomas. Beneath that ridiculous ƒacade of his, Thomas Jefferson was as much a human as any of them, as much in need of human company and compassion and energy, and James was coming to discover that sometimes, it was those who seemed the least in need of company that, in reality, needed it the most.

Σ Σ Σ

Thomas breathed loudly. He glanced down at their interlocked fingers, then up again into James’ piercing eyes. He swallowed. He found that, for the first time in their acquaintanceship, he couldn’t meet James’ eyes head-on. Here Thomas was, haughty and unbelievably arrogant and so very, very sure that he was in the right, and yet, no matter what he threw at James, no matter what he did, the man was _there_ for him, unconditionally, comforting him, helping him, even though he was well within his rights to leave Thomas to his problems. He had been under no obligations to stay.

Loathe as he was to admit it, Thomas was forced to re-evaluate his view of James Madison. Yes, he may be married, but what did he _really_ know about his marriage? For all he knew, James’ husband knew about everything they did, or at least about the part that wasn’t classified ten feet beneath the Earth. They could have an open marriage, or James could have his husband’s approval to date Thomas. What did Thomas really _know_? Nothing, that was what.

After this display of extraordinary kindness, Thomas realized that he shouldn’t be throwing the first stone. James’ tenacity was mind-boggling. Thomas struggled to wrap his mind around it.

“Thomas?” James’ voice drew him back to reality. “ _Are_ you really okay?”

Thomas bobbed his head. “Yes. Of course.” He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I’m not. But I _will_ be. Thank you for the concern. You didn’t need to—”

“I did,” James insisted. “It wasn’t _right_.” He was silent for a moment. “It’s almost as if you’re actively trying to hinder me from giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

Thomas opened his mouth, then closed it again. “I’m sorry,” he apologized, looking down at James through his lashes.

James sighed. He leaned back in his chair, withdrawing his wrist from Thomas’ grip, though he stayed within Thomas’ reach, just in case. “Don’t. Just stop putting yourself down, okay.”

Thomas suddenly found the table oh-so-much-more-interesting than their discussion. James fought a scowl. “I’m sorry,” Thomas said again. “I know you told me not to say it, but I _am_. I’m not usually like this”—he gestured at himself, snorting in self-deprecation—”and I don’t _need_ to be told that I’m brilliant and smart and intelligent and good-looking—I _know_ that I am. It’s just that…” He trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair with a sigh. “Sometimes, my brain tells me that I’m not, and I know that I shouldn’t believe it, I know that it’s not true, but it doesn’t make it any easier to refute it, you know?”

Thomas finally glanced back up at James, and James was caught off-guard by the sheer honesty, the sheer sincerity and earnestness in Thomas’ eyes. He swallowed. Suddenly, several things about Thomas began making much more sense.

He had known that there was _something_ he had been missing in his evaluation of Thomas Jefferson—he simply hadn’t imagined that it might have been social anxiety, of all things.

James nodded. “I know,” he said, and it wasn’t even that much of a lie. God knew James was used to dealing with similar things, albeit originating from different sources. Thomas’ problems came from social interaction in general—James’ came from one particular kind of social interaction. He could very well sympathize with Thomas. God, if the way James felt about romance was the way Thomas felt about every interaction he had with people, James shuddered to imagine what his life was like.

Which, in turn, raised the question…

“Why am I out in public as often as I am, huh?” Thomas asked loudly. At James’ startled look, he snorted. “No, you didn’t say it out loud, though you might as well have. Your poker face _sucks_. Hope you never have to play poker for any stakes higher than a Hubba Bubba.”

At that, James bristled. His poker face was _fine_ , _thank you very much_. Only last Christmas, he had won five consecutive games against two Belarusian agents and saved the world. Not that Thomas needed, or was even allowed, to know that.

Instead, he chuckled. “Am I _that_ easy to read, huh?” he teased. “Well?”

“Well?” Thomas echoed incomprehensibly.

“You didn’t answer your own question,” James pointed out.

Thomas cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. That.” He looked mightily uncomfortable, but he _had_ talked himself into this one, and besides, this was vital information that could potentially mean the difference between success and failure, and, consequently, life and death for quite a lot of people. James’ intel was clearly incomplete, and this was his chance to clear it up a little. Thomas could _damn well_ stand feeling a little awkward for a moment. “Well, most of the time, I’m not _actually_ that bothered by people. It’s just that, every now and again, something just clicks the wrong way and sets me off.

“I know that I act all cocky and high and mighty, and don't get me wrong, most of the time, that's not an act, except times—”

“Like right now,” James finished for him.

Thomas nodded, seemingly at a loss as to what to say. “Right.”

They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

It was ironic, James reflected, that the first time James wouldn’t have felt pressured in Thomas’ presence was the one time Thomas’ very life was in his hands. He was very comfortable with remaining by Thomas’ side and just _talking_ to him, with no other expectations on his shoulders. None of their exchanges in that brief period of time had been romantic, for what surely had to be the first time in their relationship, and wasn’t _that_ a heady thought?

It was the first time James had actually felt _comfortable_ around Thomas. The thought should probably be more worrying than it was.

James could acknowledge that at least part of his ease around the situation was the fact that there had been nothing _even remotely_ romantic about it. It had been familiar territory. Panic attacks, James could do.

Dating… James glanced at Thomas again. Less so. With every moment he spent around Thomas, he became simultaneously more comfortable in Thomas’ presence, and more unsettled by the fact that he simply didn’t know where he stood with Thomas.

“Why are you dating me?” James asked suddenly, the question pressing on his mind.

Thomas smiled. As far as James could tell, it was genuine, though James was apparently worse at reading Thomas Jefferson than he had previously thought. “Because you caught my eye, and you don’t make me uncomfortable,” he said smoothly.

 _Wish I could say the same, Thomas,_ James thought despondently. _I really do._ Thomas was a nice person, and if things had been different—not even Thomas’ allegiance at this point, just the sheer fact that Thomas flirted with _damn near everything that moved despite allegedly dating James_ , although that may also be another piece of intel that James might have to re-evaluate yet again—they might have become colleagues, or even friends.

There was a small burst of pang somewhere deep in James’ chest at the thought, at the thought of what could have been. He smothered the feeling. There was no use thinking about what could have been. He needed to focus on the _now_.

Σ Σ Σ

Thomas was too busy with his own thoughts, too lost in his own mind, to pay any heed to the internal storm raging within James’ mind. He was staring at his own fingers again, studying them as though they held the answers to his innermost questions.

Thomas realized, with a start, that it was the first time that he had actually trusted James, implicitly _trusted_ him not to hurt him, to keep him safe and protect him from all harm. James kept him _anchored_. More than that, James had _recognized_ it for what it was, and had remained by his side, talking him down until Thomas was calm and collected again. It was an odd thought to have, especially for a criminal who was playing with fire by fraternizing with an international spy.

Thomas swallowed. When he had befriended James Madison, unconditional trust hadn’t been what he had been expecting to get out of it—especially not his own—but here he was anyway.

He was _fucked_.

Σ Σ Σ

 **_Mission report_ ** _:_

 _Date of deployment:_ 2017/12/04

 _Agent_ : James Madison (Sigma)

 _Handler:_ Angelica Schuyler

 _Aim_ : Neutralize threat (Thomas Randolph Jefferson) by any means necessary.

 _Update 2017/12/07_ : Threat still engaged. Temporarily neutralized, though the neutralization depends on the presence of the agent assigned to the mission.

 _Comments 2017/12/07_ : What do I give Thomas for Christmas? I’m a little out of ideas here. (Also, hypothetically, what do pandas contain?)

Σ Σ Σ

 _Message from handler 2017/12/08:_ ‘Thomas’, is he, now? How adorable. When may we expect the happy announcement? As to your question: what are Jefferson’s interests? The best gifts are always the personal ones, showing that you know the person well. (Pandas? Organic matter, I suppose. Why the sudden interest? And don’t try to convince me that it’s _actually_ hypothetical.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping you enjoyed this chapter, and may 2018 be better than the clusterfuck that was 2017.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thomas agonizes over lying, and James is not a Russian spy, _thank you very much_. Also, pandas are harder to take care of than they seem.

On an impulse, Thomas decided to be the one to invite James to an event. He picked the planetarium, which was fucking _cool_ if you asked Thomas, which Thomas _did_. James seemed especially taken by the half-globe three-dimensional movie that had them travelling all over the universe, if the smile on his face was any indication. Thomas couldn’t say that he disagreed.

“Well?” he asked excitedly as they were strolling through another exhibit—this one about various machines, like Newton’s cradle and the flail and the perpetual motion machine, which yes, Tesla, it _was_ doable.

James’ smile widened. “It’s _fantastic_ ,” he told Thomas, who pretended not to preen under the praise.

They had an _amazing_ afternoon, with Thomas pointing out scientific curiosities in even the seemingly most mundane of matters, managing to coax a real smile out of James. Somehow, in the past few days, that accomplishment had rapidly risen from mildly impressive to ‘the best fucking thing Thomas could have done’, and Thomas was a little scared as to when _that_ had happened. Was it when James had actually helped Thomas, beyond the confines of their little casual relationship, had _trusted_ Thomas, and Thomas had trusted James in return?

Probably, Thomas thought absentmindedly.

During all this, Thomas had completely forgotten that he had been supposed to test out his death ray prototype (based loosely on Nikola Tesla’s drawings, because the man was a scientific _genius_ , and Thomas just _itched_ to see whether it would actually _work_ ). He didn’t even _remember_ until he got home much, much later, and saw the drawings he had spread out on his work desk two days earlier.

As he picked up the drawings, sifting through them meticulously, he couldn’t help but feel as though something has _shifted_ around him significantly.

Σ Σ Σ

Thomas stared down at the blueprints for the sentient micro-robot. When connected, they would act as a single being—a hivemind of sorts. Thomas had actually drawn inspiration from bees.

He glanced at the panda that was hanging down from one of the indoor trees that Thomas made a point of cultivating, because indoor trees were wicked and actually really good for the environment, and Thomas wasn’t about to fuck with Planet Earth if he could do anything about it. This turned out to be a very good decision for when he acquired the panda. That had mostly been an accident—if a date at a zoo leading to him spotting said panda could be called an accident, that was. Which, according to the dictionary, it _was_ , as Thomas hadn’t actually _intended_ for any of it to happen. It simply did.

The panda stared back. It blinked lazily, then reached out and blindly grabbed a bamboo stalk.

Technically, his mind told him, the giant panda was a bear. Thomas had once heard a rumour that the panda was, genetically speaking, a monkey, but to his knowledge, there wasn’t any evidence to back up that claim.

Thomas absentmindedly wondered what was going on inside a panda’s mind. He dismissed the thought from his mind. If James ever found out that Thomas dissected a panda simply _because_.

He sighed, then pushed away the blueprints. They were making him jittery just by looking at them. Thomas dragged his fingers through his hair, wincing when one of his hands got stuck on a knot. What he really needed was a long and hot shower, followed by a re-reading of the first volume of Newton’s _Principia Mathematica_ —very few things compared to studying motion in the absence of any resisting medium.

Thomas paused. He could also maybe talk to James. Yes, he considered after a moment, that was a good idea. Talking to James seemed to be able to calm him down lately.

But first, the shower.

Σ Σ Σ

James was in the process of flipping through an English-Chinese dictionary when a beep from his phone cheerfully informed him that he had a new message. He froze mid-motion, before calmly marking the page and closing the book.

He unlocked his phone, and clicked on the text.

 

**From: Thomas**

morning

would you like to go see the submarine exhibit?

 

**To: Thomas**

Right now?

 

**From: Thomas**

do you have anything else to do?

 

**To: Thomas**

Not anything in particular, no.

 

**From: Thomas**

great ;)

I’ll pick you up in 10

 

**To: Thomas**

See you then.

 

**From: Thomas**

actually

make that 15

 

**To: Thomas**

Did something happen? Should I be concerned?

Are you in danger?

 

**From: Thomas**

nah, relax

I’m fine

simply having a problem with a pet of mine

you know how it is

 

**To: Thomas**

You have a pet? What is it?

 

**From: Thomas**

oh nothing special

it’s a v obscure species

you wouldn’t have heard of it

 

**To: Thomas**

You’re worrying me. Are you sure that you’re fine?

 

**From: Thomas**

yes, mother

stop worrying

I’ll see you soon

 

James stared at the black screen for longer than was strictly appropriate. Thomas’ messages left him feeling unsettled. Thomas hadn't mentioned having a pet before. James had a sneaking suspicion that Thomas’ newfound pet was closely related to the break-in at the zoo. Still, not even Thomas would be crazy enough to kidnap a panda.

Wasn’t he?

Σ Σ Σ

“Did you get your pet under control?” James asked casually as they were strolling down another exhibit. Thomas’ focus was entirely on the submarines, but James found that he couldn't tear his eyes away from the man next to him.

Thomas started. “Wha—Oh, yes. Of course,” he offered what he probably thought eat s convincing smile.

James remained unimpressed. One of his eyebrows shot past his hairline. “Care to try that again?”

Thomas scoffed. “Honestly, I'm fine, and so is my pet. I'm not exactly keeping a boa as a pet.”

“Honestly, I'd actually _prefer_ a boa,” James muttered darkly, just quiet enough for Thomas not to be able to overhear.

Thomas stared at James for a long moment, before something flashed behind his eyes. The next thing James new, he was being swept up into a kiss. Thomas’ hands were on James’ shoulders, his nails digging into James’ skin with enough force to leave lasting marks. James fought the impulse to flinch away, to create some distance between himself and Thomas. This was the one part of his relationship with Thomas, if it could be called that, that he abhorred. No matter how many times he kissed Thomas, or was kissed by him, James couldn't ignore the nauseating feeling that was churning in his stomach. He wished that their relationship was different, that Thomas wasn't a target. Under other circumstances, they could have been great friends.

No matter. Things weren't, in fact, different. Thomas _was_ a target, and a dangerous one at that. James couldn't afford to let his guard down.

James closed his eyes and pressed his lips forcefully against Thomas’, desperately trying not to seem like he would rather be anywhere but here, like this. As long as Thomas didn't move, James thought, he could probably survive this.

After what felt like an eternity of uselessly pressing his lips against Thomas’—James honestly didn't understand how people _enjoyed_ this—Thomas pulled away. His breath was somewhat erratic as he glanced at James. “Did you say anything?” Thomas arched an eyebrow.

James couldn't help but think that Thomas kissed him to distract him. Well, if that was the case, the joke was on him: James wasn't one to be distracted by romance. In that regard, at least, he was no James Bond.

James cleared his throat. “Never mind.” He turned away, trying to hide the awkwardness in his face. His eyes caught on a small plaque next to a somewhat corroded submarine. James skimmed the description, mouthing the words. His eyebrow shot up almost involuntarily. Well, that was interesting. It seemed that one _did_ learn new things every day.

Thomas sided up next to him. “Found anything interesting?” he asked casually.

James tilted his head. “A U 137,” he said, pointing to the exhibit in front of them. “It was a Soviet sub. Found off the Southern coast of Sweden in 1981.”

Thomas glanced up at the submarine, then peered down at the plaque. He scrunched up his nose, before his eyes snapped up to meet James’. “You can read Russian?” He asked, gesturing at the fancy cyrillics that adorned the plate.

There was a small smirk on James’ lips as he replied, “I’m fluent in quite a few languages.”

“Why?” Thomas pressed. “Surely it's not required for work.”

James fought not to fidget. “I guess you can call it a hobby. Most people collect stamps or photos. I collect languages.”

Thomas let out a snort at that. “That's a unique take on the matter. Do you have any memories tied to your languages? That's why ‘most people’”—Thomas made air quotes—”tend to collect memorabilia.”

James couldn't help the snicker that escaped him. “You could say that,” he said, purposefully vaguely.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Fine. Be that way, Mr Enigma. Tell me more about this mysterious submarine.”

“Well”—James skimmed the text again—”it seems that, at the time it was found, the Russians claimed that they had misplaced it. The Swedish government, naturally, didn’t believe them, thinking that it had been a failed subterfuge operation to spy on Sweden’s defenses. In recent years, however, extensive research into the subject has revealed that the wreckage _had_ in fact been a result of incompetence and a faulty radar system.”

It was Thomas’ turn to quirk an eyebrow. “‘Extensive research’?” he echoed. “How extensive are we talking here?”

James shrugged. “It’s _Sweden_ , Thomas. They don’t exactly have other things to do. This has been the most fascinating thing to happen to them for _two hundred years_.”

Thomas laughed. “I see that your hobby isn’t only limited to languages. And you call _me_ a nerd,” he teased.

James rolled his eyes. “You can recite the entire periodic table backwards, are able to calculate the exact ratio of pi divided by phi, and can name all twelves uses of dragon’s blood that Dumbledore initially got famous for discovering. You _are_ a nerd, in every definition of the word.”

“Says the person who _learned Russian for shits and giggles_ ,” Thomas deadpanned, “and who keeps up with rumours of Russian submarines.”

“Soviet submarines,” James corrected machinally.

Thomas scoffed, but there was no real heat behind it. “You know, I’m beginning to think that you’re just obsessed with Russia in general. Are you _sure_ that you aren’t secretly a Russian spy?”

James tensed up almost imperceptibly. He forced himself to relax just as quickly, hoping that Thomas didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. He let out a light laugh. “No. I’m many things, but I can assure you that a Russian spy isn’t one of them. Besides, I’d make a _lousy_ spy if I was so overt about my interest in Russia.”

Thomas crossed his arms, a smirk on his face. “That’s exactly the sort of thing you’d say if you _were_ a Russian spy,” he pointed out. “And overtness seems to be working for James Bond just fine.”

“Well,” James drawled as he slowly drummed his fingers against the plaque, “I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.” He pointedly ignored the comment about James Bond; throughout his career, he’s heard a thousand cracks about him being Bond, or  jokes comparing him to the fictional spy, and he was frankly tired of it. Bond was an ideal, and James was exhausted just by hearing about him.

It was impossible to measure up to an ideal, especially when that ideal was everything that James was not.

Thomas’ smirk fell away, leaving behind a soft smile. “I guess I will. Now come on.” He gestured around them with his head. “Let’s put your newfound language skills to good use. Tell me about these things.”

James laughed at his enthusiasm, even as he followed after Thomas. The man’s incessant desire to know more, to discover more, to learn how everything worked, was endearing.

If only he would have had a real chance at a friendship with Thomas, James thought wistfully, one not built on layers upon layers of lies and deception…

That would have been enough for him.

James wasn’t in the habit of cursing his profession—as a rule, he _loved_ it, and considered himself married to his work—but there were moments when he felt like looking up at the sky and _screaming_ until he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _think_ , couldn’t tell red from green, or right from wrong.

This was one of these moments.

Σ Σ Σ

Several expletives came forth from Thomas’ mouth as its owner glared at his phone, giving it a look usually reserved for annoying tourists or people at Starbucks who were holding up the line trying to decide on a drink.

The calendar in his phone was beaming back at him, cheerfully informing him that he had double-booked his afternoon. On one hand, there was an experiment he had been looking forward to for _weeks_ —testing the concentrations of ammonia and bleach needed to make chloramine, and what dosage would be lethal to a human being. It was science in its purest form.

On the other hand, he had invited James to go see a dog show, after James had admitted that he’s always had a thing for labradors but that his work had always kept him too busy travelling the world to be able to take care of one.

Thomas bit his lip.

_Damned if you do, damned if you don’t._

His fingers hovered over James’ contact. He could easily just call him, or even just _text_ him, and tell him that he wouldn’t be able to make it. It wasn’t that hard—all it would take would be but a few words, and then he’d be able to experiment with the ammonia in peace.

Thomas closes his eyes, his grip on the phone tightening. He didn’t like this—didn’t like having to choose between his passion and his James. His friend, arguably his _only_ friend, if not exactly the love of his life.

With every day, Thomas was feeling more and more guilt stack up in him at the thought of how he was lying to James every day of their acquaintanceship. Granted, James was lying to him as well, but it wasn’t the same thing. Thomas was toying with James’ emotions, stealing into his affections without his permission—or even, indeed, any intention of fulfilling any expectations James might have about their relationship. After all, James was expecting a long-term romantic relationship, a _sexual_ relationship, and that was simply something Thomas couldn’t give him, no matter how much he wanted to keep James happy.

If James ever found out about the way Thomas had betrayed him—and find out he would, of that Thomas had no doubt… Well. Any chances of a friendship with James would go down the drain the second James found out the truth. If he was lucky, James would simply storm off. Most likely, Thomas would be staring down the barrel of James’ gun as those warm, chocolate-brown eyes were glaring holes into Thomas’ head, demanding to know why, Thomas, _why?_

Why indeed. Thomas very much wanted to know that himself.

What had been a simple game of cat and mouse, existing for nothing but Thomas’ amusement, had become a much more complicated situation. Thomas was dating his best friend, who was in love with Thomas, an emotion Thomas could not reciprocate. Adding insult to injury, their very professions put them at odd with each other. Were James to know who Thomas was, he would be morally and professionally obliged to put a bullet between Thomas’ eyes.

What was worse, Thomas didn’t know whether he would be capable of stopping him, or whether he would even _want_ to stop him.

Coming to a decision, he opened up the calendar app again. He clicked on the ammonia appointment, then clicked ‘Delete event’. He couldn’t help but think that the soft whooshing sound his phone made as it deleted the event was, in itself, ominous.

Thomas wished that he had a clue as to what he was doing, because he was flying blind, and he was fucking _terrified_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you look at that. Thomas Jefferson has Moral Problems.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down. James is insulted by the sheer lack of professionalism from MI6.

James was over at Thomas’ the day it happened.

They had decided to watch _Men In Black_. Thomas had pitched Quantum of Solace, but James’ expression told him all he needed to know about James’ opinion of that movie. James had ordered Thai food from some place that Thomas didn’t recognize. Thomas had scavenged his linen closet until he found a pair of blankets, because a movie night simply wasn’t a movie night without blankets.

(Thomas has had to do a fair bit of cleaning up in preparation for that, having had to remove blueprints for his various projects, as well as move the panda’s cage, before deeming his home James-proof.)

They were sitting on the couch. James had commandeered the right side of the couch, closer to the door, leaving Thomas to sit on the left, which Thomas was completely fine with.

There was nothing to indicate what was about to happen (which, in retrospect, made complete sense, seeing as Thomas was dealing with _spies_ , who usually dealt in _undercover_ and _secret_ missions). One moment, Thomas was toying with his _som tam_ while commenting on Agent J’s fighting style, and the next, he felt a blade being pressed to his throat.

He heard, rather than saw, James move. Thomas himself barely dared to breathe, in fear of pressing the blade closer to his larynx. He wasn’t suicidal, _thank you very much_ , and he was aware of how basic physics worked.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep calm. There was little point in getting himself stressed over this, especially since he couldn’t control what was happening, and he could miss something vital if he was too distressed to focus on his surroundings.

James’ footsteps were suddenly cut off, and yet, Thomas heard no sounds that would indicate a fight, nor did the blade move away from his face. He should probably have suspected, if not outright known, that James could mask the sound of his footsteps if need be. What kind of spy would he be if his enemies could hear him coming?

Thomas heard the tell-tale click of the safety being switched off somewhere behind him, before James calmly said, “Let him go.”

Thomas’ assailant snorted. “I’m sorry, agent whoever you are, but I have my orders, and I, unlike _you_ , actually intend to follow through with them.” He had a distinct British accent, which, _really_? _Were they for fucking serious_? Of all agencies that had to order a hit on Thomas, it just _had_ to have been MI6?

There was a moment of silence. When James spoke again, his voice was calm and measured, quite unlike that of only a minute before, when he was complaining that Thomas’ estimation of Agent J’s skills was in no way realistic, and really, Thomas, for a walking encyclopedia, you should have known that a fall from _sixty feet_ usually ends with at least broken legs and shattered ankles, if not worse, it’s simple physics. “I _am_ following my orders, which you would have known, had you actually done your research. Now _step away from Thomas Jefferson_.”

The assailant shifted his stance, pressing the knife closer to Thomas’ throat. Thomas fought the urge to flinch away. He felt so fucking _helpless_ , standing there while the two spies—or whatever his assailant was—were chatting like it was some sort of meet-and-greet. What was the use of being a villain if he couldn’t even _do_ anything in a showdown?

Thomas briefly wondered what James was feeling, before he mentally punched himself. _Priorities, Jefferson._ He could talk to James later. The possibility that there might not _be_ a later didn’t cross Thomas’ mind.

Thomas opened his eyes in an effort to gauge the rather unfortunate situation he had found himself in. He knew that the assailant was standing behind him, somewhere to his left, his arm around Thomas’ neck. The cool of the blade was a sharp contrast to Thomas’ warm body, flushing with adrenaline—or was it noradrenaline? Thomas couldn’t remember which of the hormones caused increased blood flow in the face of danger. Adrenaline definitely caused an increase in energy, but did it also increase heart rate? Thomas made a note to check it up later.

Thomas forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. Even if he didn’t want to, which he _should_ , the blade of the knife had a way of making Thomas reassess his priorities.

Thomas heard, more than felt, the assailant shake his head. “No can do, bro,” the man drawled.

A small, almost imperceptible sigh came from James. “Very well,” he said.

Suddenly, there was a tumult of noises. Thomas felt the blade slip away from his throat. He took a shaky step forward, just barely avoiding collapsing onto his knees, gasping for breath as he clutched his throat in an abortive attempt to make sure that he really was fine.

The sounds of a fight were followed by what sounded like flesh striking flesh, before Thomas heard a loud thud that could not have resulted from anything other than a human body hitting the floor—and Thomas should know, as he had once measured the exact sound a corpse made as it hit different materials during a fall.

A silence ensued. Thomas’ entire body tensed up. He didn’t know which of the two spies had emerged victorious. It suddenly occurred to him that it might have in fact been James who was now lying on Thomas’ floor, bleeding out all over his Oriental, and _pretty freaking expensive_ , carpet.

Fuck. Thomas could _die_. He could die right now, and there was nothing that he could do to prevent it, no invention he could use. Nobody would miss him if he was gone, as his only friend would have been dead already.

“You can turn around now, Thomas,” came James’ voice, still incredibly, _astonishingly_ composed, from behind Thomas.

Swallowing the apprehension that suddenly began to rise up within him, Thomas turned around, uncertainty in his movements. Even knowing what to expect, he still froze at the sight before him. He took a steadying breath, trying to alleviate the fear that threatened to overwhelm him, before looking up into James’ cool eyes.

Σ Σ Σ

James and Thomas stared at each other from across the room, the dead body still at James’ feet, the blood on James’ hands still warm.

 _Well_ , James thought absentmindedly as he properly took stock of the man—the rookie, really, which was downright _insulting_ —at his feet, _this was sloppy_. James had blood all over him, even if it wasn’t exactly his. James Madison simply did not _make_ these kinds of mistakes. Then again, he mused, there were a lot of things that James Madison simply did not do, with getting irrationally attached to a person regularly displaying narcissistic antisocial tendencies being right at the top of the list—and yet here he was.

“So,” Thomas said slowly. “We need to talk.” He seemed to be perfectly content ignoring the knife in James’ hand, and the gun on the floor next to the body.

“I’d apologize for your carpet,” James said, gesturing at the corpse at his feet, “but we both know that it wouldn’t be your first time getting your apartment bleached.”

Thomas’ eyes narrowed. “Yeah, speaking of _that_ ,” he drawled. “How long have you known that I’m…” He trailed off as he gestured around them in a vague yet all-enveloping motion.

“A villain?” James supplied helpfully, disregarding the stinging look Thomas gave him. “How long have _you_ known that I’m…?” he echoed Thomas’ words, a smirk on his face.

Thomas shot him an angry look. “James Bond?” he mocked.

James scowled. “That was _low_ ,” he told Thomas. “Nobody likes to be compared to Bond.”

Thomas tilted his head. “Why not?” he asked curiously.

James scoffed. “The man is unprofessional, unrealistic, and ignores protocol like there’s no tomorrow. Not even”— _Hamilton_ —”one of my coworkers does that.”

Thomas whistled. “Your hatred of _Quantum of Solace_ is beginning to make a lot of sense.”

James rolled his eyes. “Now _that’s_ just a bad movie. But yes, it’s part of it.” He glanced down at the body with distaste. “Rookie,” he said with a snort. “MI6 could at least have done me the favour of sending someone competent.”

“If they did,” Thomas felt the need to point out, “there’s a chance that we would both have been dead now.”

James made a noncommittal shrug. “It’s professional courtesy to send someone whose skills match that of the target, Thomas,” he explained simply.

Thomas rolled his eyes. He clearly had to reassess James’ sanity. “In case you’ve forgotten, _I_ was the target,” he reminded him.

“But _I_ was nearby, which is something the mission assessment should always take into account.”

Thomas shook his head. “You sound as though they’ve personally upset you,” he said with a smirk.

James signed. “I can’t make you understand. It’s just professional courtesy,” he repeated.

James glanced around, assessing the situation. Surmising that Thomas was neither likely to come to harm nor likely to harm anyone, James picked up the gun and headed for the kitchen.

He felt more than saw Thomas follow him. His eyes were on James as he put the gun on the counter, then went through the motions of cleaning the knife. If he wanted to identify the attacker in question—which, considering his accent, there _was_ a high chance that he was MI6, especially taking into account the fact that MI6 rarely bothered to train their agents in changing accents, James doubted that he needed to, but for the sake of formality, he would—he had his entire body including fingerprints to go on, and the blood on his knife could just as easily be found in his corpse. James certainly didn’t need the blood on the blade to identify him. Besides, the knife was a virtual beauty, and it would have been a crime against all things sharp to let it go to waste just because there was some blood on it.

Drying the knife, James put it on the counter, before emptying the gun and checking that it hadn’t been harmed when James had thrown it on the floor. Technically speaking, he could be issued a new one, an _identical_ one, even, but it simply wouldn’t be the same. Unlike most operatives, James was fond of his weapons, and he made a point of trying not to lose them during missions (this made him the clear favourite of the tech department, which gave him certain _perks_ such as being the one to test most prototypes in the field; Hamilton, on the other hand, with a tendency to lose both his gun and radio and whatever else he was issued, which James knew mainly because he had once overheard two tech minions cursing Hamilton sevens ways to hell after the man had returned from Singapore, had never seen the business end of a prototype, and likely never would). This particular gun had been with James for two years now, and James rather thought of her as his loyal companion.

“Nice gun,” Thomas finally said. When James chanced a glance at him, he saw Thomas leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, his entire posture screaming nonchalance. Still, James knew how to read beyond what appeared at first glance, and Thomas was not nearly as relaxed as he would like to seem

“Thank you,” James murmured. “It’s a Walther PKK.”

James swore that he could _hear_ Thomas smirk. “Like the one James Bond uses?” he teased.

James’ shoulders tensed up. “James Bond is a _disgrace_ to the espionage community at large,” he shot back. “Don’t compare me to him. But yes.” He sighed. “It’s like the one James Bond uses. He uses them for a _reason_ , you know. They’re swift, reliable, and their aim is impeccable.”

Thomas merely hummed in response. James wasn’t sure how to take it.

They stood there in silence, Thomas watching as James ran another check on the gun before deeming it safe to use. James loaded the gun, and pocketed it, if it could even be called that, before turning back to Thomas. “You know,” he said conversationally, “you seem awfully calm about the fact that I’m an assassin with specific orders to tail you.”

Thomas shrugged, but James could see the lines of tension that belied the casual motion. “I figured that if you or your boss wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.”

James sighed. He didn’t have the heart to tell Thomas that Washington was yet to make up his mind regarding Thomas’ continued existence.

“You never answered my question: how long have you known that I’m CIA?” James switched subjects. He figured that it was safe enough to reveal his origins to Thomas. The man either already suspected it, or would find out shortly.

Thomas shrugged. “Since I met you,” he said simply.

James’ eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. “You were having too much fun with the Russian spy thing,” he accused.

Thomas’ smirk was pronounced. “What can I say? I have my guilty pleasures.”

James sighed. “Speaking of guilty pleasures… I feel like I should warn you that I won’t allow you to kill four hundred people,” he said faux-casually.

Thomas blinked, his smirk fading. “Was _that_ what got you on my case?” he asked curiously.

“In part,” James admitted. He absentmindedly massaged his wrist as he thought about his next words. Well, the cat was out of the bag anyway, and Thomas deserved to know. “I need to tell you something,” he said at length, his voice guarded.

Thomas stilled, a cautious look in his eyes. He seemed to steel himself for something. For once, James thought despondently, Thomas’ dramatic reaction wasn’t unfounded. James _hated_ himself for what he was about to say; it would break Thomas’ heart, and that was the last thing he wanted.

A moment went by, then two, and still, James did not speak. It was as if the words became clogged up in his throat, refusing to leave his mouth.

“James?” Thomas said finally, his voice breaking the uncomfortable silence. “Talk to me. This silence is scaring me.”

James let out a deep breath. “I’m asexual. And aromantic. That means that—”

“You don’t experience sexual attraction,” Thomas finished for him.

When James chanced a look at Thomas’ face, he saw that there was a small smile on Thomas’ face. James blinked in confusion. What had he _missed_?

“How did you know that?” James asked carefully.

Thomas’ smile widened. “I tend to know the definition of my own sexuality,” he teased.

James felt as though his breath was knocked out of his lungs. He was staring at Thomas with dawning comprehension. Thomas couldn’t possibly be saying what James thought that he was saying.

“You’re asexual?” he asked, needing to ascertain that he had heard what he thought that he had heard.

Thomas nodded silently.

James mulled over the revelation. That explained quite a lot about Thomas. Now that he thought back to their past interactions, there were certainly some signs about Thomas, signs that James _should have recognized_ —if not by virtue of being a spy, then by virtue of _fucking being asexual himself_. Some of Thomas’ reactions took on a whole new meaning in this new light.

Still, that was only part of the solution.

“You answered part of the question,” he said, a little wariness returning to his voice.

Thomas frowned, as if trying to recall James’ exact words. His eyes suddenly shone up. “Ah. Right. Aromantic.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’m not… that—or, at least, I don’t think I am—but I do know what it means,” he assured James.

James’ posture relaxed minisculely. “That’s… relieving,” he said, a small smile beginning to coil around the corners of his lips. “But back to my point. Since my cover is blown anyway, I’d like to—no,” he corrected himself abruptly, “I _need_ to—for the sake of honesty, tell you that I wasn’t actually—that is, I wasn’t doing this because—”

“You didn’t want to actually date me,” Thomas finished for him.

James nodded. “Yes. That.” He hated that even now, even after the relationship he had managed to create with Thomas, he still hesitated to even mention romance, even in clinical terms.

Thomas tilted his head. He suddenly let out a quiet gasp. James glanced at him quizzically. “You’re not married,” Thomas breathed, his relief almost visible.

James furrowed his brows in bewilderment. “ _Of course_ I’m not _married_ ,” he told Thomas. “I just told you that I’m—” He paused as realization washed over him. “Wait,” he said sharply, “all this time, you thought I was _married_?”

Thomas shrugged. “Kind of, yeah,” he confessed.

James stared at Thomas, indignation rising. “You thought I was married, and yet you decided to pursue me?”

“Hey, now,” Thomas retorted. “If my memory serves me right, _you_ were the one to ‘pursue’ me first,” he made air quotes.

“Only because I was _ordered_!” James burst out. “What’s _your_ excuse?”

“You know, I’m curious about something: why did you accept a mission that you knew would go against everything you were?”

“Because there was no one else to do it, and stop changing the subject,” James said briskly. “Why did you date me when you thought I was married?”

Thomas winced. The movement did not go unnoticed by James, whose eyes narrowed. “Well,” Thomas said slowly, “at first, I thought that you were just an agent fucking around while you were waiting for your target, and that you were willing to flirt with the first guy who approached you.”

“By your own admission, I approached _you_ ,” James objected.

“And so I decided to fuck with you, because I thought that you were a cheating dickhead and that you deserved it. And by the time I figured out that you weren’t here on a mission, it was too late. By then, I figured that you were on vacation, hiding from your husband”—James’ eyebrows shot up at that—”and, well, that gave me _more_ incentive to screw with you.” Thomas sighed. He ran his fingers through his hair. “In retrospect, it sounds _really_ fucked up.”

James pointedly didn’t reply, nor did he need to.

“I mean,” Thomas went on, his tone turning defensive, “why would you otherwise take an interest in me?” He waved a hand to indicate James. “You’re scintillating, brilliant, witty, and completely out of my league. Even _I_ can see that,” Thomas said darkly.

James pursed his lips as he fixed Thomas with a calculating look. What _was_ that about?

“Don’t take it the wrong way,” Thomas went on. “I’m not interested in you romantically. That just… leaves me feeling disgusting—like I’ve been immersed in a bacta tank.” Thomas said with a shudder. “But you’re a remarkable person, and, as much as I hate to admit it, I can’t really compare.”

James sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn’t know how to reply to to Thomas’ words. “What a _fucking_ mess,” he muttered under his breath.

“Language,” Thomas told him mockingly.

James rolled his eyes. “Says the man who swears three times a sentence.”

Thomas shrugged. “What can I say? It’s a talent.”

James didn’t speak for a long moment. “We need to go back to the part where you need to realize that although I consider you a close friend, I will not allow you to kill innocent civilians,” James said reprovingly.

Thomas huffed. “I thought you might say that.”

“Are you… okay with that?” James asked carefully. It would be a disaster if Thomas wasn’t. The last thing James wanted was having to choose between the man who had quickly become his best friend, and his duty. He hated that he knew which he would choose.

Thomas seemed to realize that as well. His shoulders slumped. “If I say no, what will happen?”

James grimaced. “I will probably be ordered to take you out,” he said regretfully.

Thomas winced. “Yeah, let’s avoid that, shall we?”

James’ lips curled up into a smirk. “I quite like that idea. Now,”—he pushed a coffee mug that he had procured when Thomas hadn’t been looking—”let’s talk.”

“About what?” Thomas asked, puzzled.

James rolled his eyes, even as his smirk faded. “How about we start with how you wanted to kill four hundred people just to create a sword?”

“Three hundred and sixty,” Thomas corrected habitually.

James blinked. “You are really something special, Thomas Jefferson.”

“Right back at you, Agent Madison.”

“Agent Sigma, if you must.”

Thomas offered his hand. “A pleasure to meet you.”

James glanced at the man in front of him, before a small smile crossed his lips.

He shook Thomas’ hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Uh. This is long overdue. There's a few more chapters to go though.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking, talking, and more talking. Also, a panda.
> 
> (Or, Washington is Not Amused at James' choices.)

“Can we continue this upstairs?” Thomas eventually suggested. “But wait here for a moment. I’m just going to—There’s a thing that I—”

James levels him with a distinctly unimpressed look. “Thomas,” he says slowly, “I know that there’s a panda there.”

Thomas relaxed. “Good,” he said, breathing with relief.

James stared. “Good? In what world is you kidnapping a panda ‘good’?”

“Not ‘good’ as in ‘I kidnapped a panda is good’ kind of good,” Thomas tried to backtrack. “‘Good’ as in ‘you know about the fact that I kidnapped a panda and I don’t have to hide it from you’ kind of good.”

James rolled his eyes. “Why do you  _ do _ this?” He waved a hand to indicate everything around them. “Why do you play with people’s lives as though you’re God? You’re clearly not a psychopath,  _ or _ a sociopath. Why, then?” His eyes were shining with curiosity.

“I’m not  _ actually _ a sociopath,” Thomas found himself replying. “I’m just curious and,  _ yes _ , somewhat cruel and while I do feel guilt, I don’t show much regard for human life as a whole. I tend to get attached to specific individuals, but not  _ people _ as a whole. Ideas? Yes. People? No. People are plebeians.” Thomas scoffed, even as he was slowly panicking inside.

He had never voiced this before. Had never spoken about this to anyone before. Whom would he have even been able to confide in? It wasn’t as though he went around sharing either of his secret identities with random strangers, and his family made it clear years ago that he was no longer welcome.

He was a man of science.

James’ eyes hadn’t left him. He was clearly still awaiting an answer.

Thomas pressed his face into his hands, before letting out a long breath. “I guess that… I guess that I’m just curious. I want to  _ know _ things. I don’t necessarily  _ need _ the knowledge for anything, other than to simply  _ have _ it. Besides, you can’t convince me that being able to extract iron from people’s blood couldn’t be very useful, considering that the demand on iron is ever-increasing, and there are a lot of potential ‘iron donors’ in newly-deceased corpses.”

James spluttered. “That’s—”  _ awful _ .

“Ingenious, I know,” Thomas filled in with a grin.

James shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he told Thomas.

“I’m a villain,” Thomas corrected. “But not the ‘Take Over The Earth’ type of villain; I’m more of a ‘I Want To See Whether This Science Thing Actually Works And I Don’t Care Whether I Have To Kill People To Test It’ kind of villain.”

James grimaced again, before grabbing Thomas’ coffee and downing it in one go. “No need to be so crude.”

“That reminds me,” Thomas went on, “I’ve also tested an enlarged version of the lemon plus vinegar plus bicarbonate plus caramel dye volcano—in Australia, since Australians don’t actually have any active volcanoes, so really, I was doing them all a favour.”

James sighed. He dragged a hand through his hand. “This is exactly the sort of attitude that we will need to work on.”

Thomas perked up. So there  _ was _ going to be a later, was there? That was…

Well.

He was reluctant to admit, even to himself, how relieved James’ words made him feel.

“But enough about me.” Thomas clasped his hands. “You’re asexual, right?”

James quirked an eyebrow at the sudden subject change. “Yes. Asexual and aromantic. You too?”

“I’m definitely somewhere on the aromanticism spectrum. Not sure about where exactly. Are you okay with touching?”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t, actually,” James said apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

Thomas waved a dismissive hand. “Don’t be. It’s natural, I suppose.” He squinted. “What is  _ not _ natural, on the other hand,” he went on, “is that a sex- and touch-repulsed agent was sent on a—what is it called?”

“A honeypot mission,” James said miserably. He sighed. “There was literally no one else they could have sent.”

Thomas frowned. “And you went along with it?”

“Four hundred innocent people would have died otherwise—”

“Three hundred and sixty. Maybe seventy, just to be safe.”

“—and those deaths would have been on  _ me _ just as much as they would have been on you.”

“Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t have felt very guilty about it. The people I’ve chosen for this…” He paused theatrically. “Well, let’s put it this way: society would have been much better off without them.”

“That does not give you the right to  _ kill _ them,” James objected.

“You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t have liked some people gone,” Thomas protested. “You’re good, but you’re no saint, James Madison.”

“No, but I’m a reasonable human being whose first instinct when confronted with something that I don’t like isn’t to kill it with fire.”

“Well, I’m a villain,” Thomas reminded him for the umpteenth time.

James tapped his fingers against his chin, and Thomas could practically see the cogs turning in his mind as a vague plan began to form in his mind.

He leaned forward, eager to ask him about his thoughts, but hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. No. That just wouldn’t do. James would tell him in his own time.

“How was the mission?” he asked, mostly out of a need for another topic. “In general.”

James tensed up ever-so-slightly. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about that,” he said stiffly.

Thomas rolled his eyes. “Just… Hit me with whatever you’ve got.”

“I hated every second of when I thought that I’d have to sleep with you, okay?” James snapped. “No offence.”

Thomas frowned. He tried to meet James’ eyes, but the man refused to look at him. “James,” he began slowly, “have I ever done anything to make you uncomfortable?”

James squirmed. He eventually nodded, though the movement was visibly reluctant. “Mostly in the beginning,” he confirmed. “You seemed to somehow gradually detect my boundaries—though how, I have no idea, as we never spoke about this.”

Their eyes met. Thomas’ breath hitched. In that moment, he realized that they  _ had _ been in a real, actual committed relationship—all without knowing it. Not the one required for James’ mission, granted, but an  _ actual _ , real relationship, with care and trust and all that constituted a relationship.

“Shit,” Thomas whispered.

“Shit,” James echoed.

 

Σ Σ Σ

 

“I know that I act all cocky and high and mighty, and don't get me wrong, most of the time, that's not an act, except times—”

“Like right now,” James finished for him.

Thomas nodded, seemingly at a loss we to what to say.

 

Σ Σ Σ

 

**_Mission report_ ** _ : _

_ Date of deployment: _ 2017/12/04

_ Agent _ : James Madison (Sigma)

_ Handler: _ Angelica Schuyler

_ Aim _ : Neutralize threat (Thomas Randolph Jefferson) by any means necessary.

_ Update 2017/12/07 _ : Mission compromised.

_ Comments 2017/12/07 _ : I… may have killed a guy. I’m fairly sure he was MI6. No extraction needed.

 

Σ Σ Σ

 

“So, where does this leave us?” Thomas finally asked the question of both of their minds.

James sighed as he dragged a hand through his hair. “I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “I don’t want to kill you, but I will be forced to unless you change paths, which you seem reluctant to do.”

“Because what I do is  _ fun _ ,” Thomas protested. “Can you realistically offer me anything that I would derive as much enjoyment from?”

James paused.

As a matter of fact, he  _ did _ know a job that offered the thrill of adrenaline, enough studying to make any Ravenclaw throw up their hands in disgust, a license to kill, free guns, unlimited weirdness, and yes, a science department that was working on an honest-to-God invisibility cloak that Thomas was more than welcome to visit.

A small smirk curled up James’ lips. “I may have an idea.”

 

Σ Σ Σ

 

Washington very pointedly did not stare.

His voice was measure when he spoke, “You want to recruit Thomas Jefferson.”

“Yes, sir.”

Anyone else might have cajoled, begged, or issued thinly-veiled threats by now. Not Sigma. He simply stood there in front of Washington, his posture as casual as though they were discussing the weather and not trying to rope an actual supervillain into joining America’s foremost crime-fighting organization.

Then again, Sigma had always been unique.

He sighed. “Agent Sigma.  _ Madison _ . You  _ do _ realize what it is that you’re asking me to do, isn’t it?”

Sigma nodded. “All too well, sir.”

“And you are aware of what the consequences will be, should this fail?”

“Yes, sir.”

Washington stared. “And you are willing to risk them?” he couldn’t help asking incredulously.

Sigma nodded sharply.

Washington sighed again. He was silent for a long moment as he mulled over the idea.

“Very well,” he said at length. “I trust your instincts.”

Sigma smiled. “Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.”

Washington rolled his eyes. “Dismissed, Sigma,” he said wearily. He had a nagging feeling that he would be needing the drink Angelica offered before long.

As he watched Sigma filter out of his office, his footsteps soft against the cold floor, hs curiosity burned brighter with every second.

Just who  _ was _ Thomas Jefferson, to have won Sigma’s trust so easily?

Washington both dreaded and hoped to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is coming to an end, but there's (an? several?) outtake(s?) awaiting you, as well a sequel. Stay tuned!


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The epilogue, 
> 
> or, 
> 
> The James Bond outtake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Heteronormativity And Commercialized Affection Day!
> 
> Enjoy your favourite aces… doing… nothing… watching movies… being Chill about everything.

Thomas flopped down on the couch next to James. “You cool with me resting my head on your shoulder?” he asked, propping his feet up on the ottoman.

“Um, yes?” James replied cautiously. “Why?”

“I’m frankly _exhausted_ , and if I have to hold my head up for another second, I may actually _die_ ,” Thomas muttered, his hair tickling James’ face as he leaned against his side.

“That would be unfortunate, to say the least,” James said dryly, earning him a chuckle from Thomas.

“Do you have Netflix?” Thomas asked abruptly.

James huffed. “Of course,” he said, automatically reaching for the remote.

“Are there any James Bond movies up?” Thomas prompted.

James paused mid-login, and turned his head to stare at his best friend. “You’re _kidding_ ,” he deadpanned.

“Nope,” Thomas drawled. “I’m in the mood for making fun of horrible espionage techniques with an actual international spy.”

“Only if I get to make fun of ludicrous evil schemes with an actual super villain,” James said, nudging Thomas in the ribs.

Thomas snorted. “Of course, Jemmy. That’s half of the fun. Now,” he asked matter-of-factly, “do you have Skyfall?”

“Yes…?” James replied, furrowing his brows in confusion, as he flicked through the action movies. “Why?”

“There are labradors in it,” Thomas said simply.

James rolled his eyes. “You're an actual dork,” he told Thomas, fondness evident in his voice.

Thomas shrugged shamelessly as he fiddled with his newly-issued gun, before putting it on the seat next to him. “You love me anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are, 18k-something words later and somewhat wiser. I hope that you liked my execution of this prompt. Let me know in the comments!
> 
> There's going to be a sequel in this verse, in which we meet John Laurens, the kindest mafia boss ever to grace the Earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are gifts that keep on giving :)
> 
> I'm not sure how regular the updates will be. I'll try to keep it at least semi-regular, but no promises.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Thomas Jefferson likes tarantulas](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13198380) by [AWalkingParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox)
  * [This is why you don’t got on honeypot missions, James](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13281993) by [AWalkingParadox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AWalkingParadox/pseuds/AWalkingParadox)




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